“One would think you were hurrying to catch a train.”
“So I am—if you must have your curiosity satisfied. I am going on a little pleasure excursion, Mr. Inquisitive.”
“For long?”
“U—m! Home to-morrow, perhaps. Is it true that Mr. Carlyle’s elected?”
“Oh, yes; don’t go up that way, please.”
“Not up this way?” repeated Afy. “It’s the nearest road to the station. It cuts off all that corner.”
The officer laid his hand upon her, gently. Afy thought he was venturing upon it in sport—as if he deemed her too charming to be parted with.
“What do you mean by your nonsense? I tell you I have not time for it now. Take your hand off me,” she added grimly—for the hand was clasping her closer.
“I am sorry to hurt a lady’s feelings, especially yours, miss, but I daren’t take it off, and I daren’t part with you. My instructions are to take you on at once to the witness-room. Your evidence is wanted this afternoon.”
If you ever saw a ghost more livid than ghosts in ordinary, you may picture to your mind the appearance of Afy Hallijohn just then. She did not faint as she had done once before that day, but she looked as if she should die. One sharp cry, instantly suppressed, for Afy did retain some presence of mind, and remembered that she was in the public road—one sharp tussle for liberty, over as soon, and she resigned herself, perforce, to her fate.